


Text

by zillsonfire



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Deductions, Don’t copy to another site, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, POV Greg Lestrade, Pre-Slash, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 09:23:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19850233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zillsonfire/pseuds/zillsonfire
Summary: A chance remark leads Greg Lestrade to a welcome discovery





	Text

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on a couple longer stories, but stalling. So I wrote this little one out as a way to get the juices flowing again. As always, if you have any constructive critique or other comments, they are more than welcome!

“Come on, Sherlock, there has to be _something_ there.” 

Greg Lestrade stands, stretches his spine, and rolls his shoulders back. He feels like he’s been sitting on the Baker Street sofa for hours. _Christ, I’d kill for a fag_ , he thinks, rubbing the back of his neck with a large, tanned hand. But he quit last week, and he’s trying to make it stick this time. So a nicotine patch on his arm and a biro between his fingers it will have to be. 

“Any luck yet?” asks John as he comes through the door to the flat, a cardboard tray from Speedy’s holding three coffees in hand. 

“No,” Sherlock replies from the depth of his chair. He steeples his fingers in front of his face, thumb rubbing back and forth across his lower lip as he stares at the explosion of paper in front of him intently. “No.” He leaps up, narrowly missing the cup John is in the process of placing beside him, and clutches his hair in his fists as he begins pacing back and forth. “There’s something missing here, something I’m not seeing, why can’t I see it?” he mutters. “Come on, come _on_...” 

John steps out of Sherlock’s way with practiced ease, and moves across the room to hand Greg his coffee. “Thanks for doing this, Greg,” he says, leaning in. “He was going bonkers with this ‘flu, and I wouldn’t have been able to put up with him much longer.” 

“No worries, mate,” Greg replies. “This case was going cold anyway. Might as well let him take a crack at it while he convalesces.” 

“While he--” 

There’s an odd look on John’s face, but Sherlock lets a sudden exclamation and Greg turns away. “Mycroft!” 

“Mycroft?” Greg echoes. “What does Mycroft have to do with a jewel theft in Hampstead?” 

“No, no, this has his people all over it. Damn!” Hissing through his teeth, Sherlock rummages for his phone and punches in a number. “Brother, a moment of your time. I need some information on...” His voice fades as he whirls away, dressing gown flying, and strides down the hall to his room. 

The lounge falls silent in his wake. John and Greg glance at each other, resigned. “Well, he’s on the scent. You’ll never keep him resting now,” Greg says, gesturing with his half-empty cup. He pauses. “He must really be anxious to get back on the game if he’s calling instead of texting. Can’t remember the last time I saw him do that.” 

“Hmm?” John looks up. “Oh. No, it’s Mycroft. Hates texting. He refuses to answer them. Took ages, but Sherlock finally gave up.” 

“Hates--really? Sherlock’s brother hates texting?” Greg feels his eyebrows reach for his hairline. “Hard to credit, that.” 

John opens his mouth to reply, but Sherlock is suddenly back in the room, fully dressed now, reaching for Greg’s arm and leading him to the stair. “What are you waiting for, John? Lestrade, I’m sure you’re needed back at the Yard. We’ll let you know when we’re ready for you. Goodbye.” 

“Hey--” Greg blinks to find himself unceremoniously ushered out of the door of the flat, door closed in his face. He reaches for the door handle, then stops himself. With a roll of his eyes and a small growl--of humour? Frustration? He can’t tell which--he turns away. 

On the street, he leans against his car, taking a deep breath of fresh air. It smells like rain. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and taps it against his chin, gazing thoughtfully up at the first-story windows of 221b. Looking back down, he unlocks his phone and scrolls through his text history. 

Meeting arrangements. Requests for information. Wry little comments about how the day is progressing. Recommendations for a restaurant, a film, a brand of whisky, a place to get decent coffee in a dodgy part of town. A small joke here and there. Commiserations. _\--I swear if those two go off like that one more time, I’ll kill them. --Not worth the hassle to clean up, I’m afraid-MH._

The corners of Greg’s mouth curl up in a smile as his thumbs move across the keyboard. 

_\--Mr. Holmes.  
\--I have it on reliable authority that you hate to text._

The answer chimes almost immediately. 

_\--Do you now?-MH_

_\--I do._  
_\--In fact, if what I hear is true, you flat out refuse to answer them._  
_\--At all._

_\--Detective Inspector Lestrade, are you deducing me?-MH_

Greg laughs aloud. 

_\--Could be.  
\--Have dinner at mine tonight and you can find out._

The reply takes just long enough that Greg realizes he’s holding his breath when the alert comes through. 

_\--My diary is clear after 8._  
_\--Shall I bring red wine, or white?-MH_

Greg lets his breath out in a rush, and opens the driver-side door. _\--Red_ , he texts, as he climbs in behind the wheel. Grinning to himself, he adds one more thing before he tosses the phone on the seat and pulls out into traffic. 

_\--x_


End file.
